


Seventeen

by The_Real_Squoose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Songfic, movie-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 10:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19003774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Squoose/pseuds/The_Real_Squoose
Summary: Bucky had believed it would be better for Steve. The Asset could see that it was a severe miscalculation. The Asset was also still a goddamn coward. He was getting pieces of himself back- like shards of a shattered mirror- but he could never be the same person again. Maybe Steve wouldn’t like this version so much, and the Bucky-person had done a bad job to start with.~~~The Asset remembers snippets of a life with Steve Rogers- long before he was the Captain.





	Seventeen

_My daddy says that life comes at you fast_

_We all like blades of grass_

_We come to prime and in time we just wither away_

 

Drops of blood hit the sand, one after another. He watched them fall, watched them slide away from torn skin. He had done that.

The Captain’s body was limp, a tangled mess of heavy limbs, but his chest was rising and falling just slightly. And the Asset was good at seeing such things. The Captain would live. His mission would live.

 

_And it all changes_

_My view with a looking glass won’t catch the past_

_Only photographs remind us of the passing days_

 

The museum had held pictures of the Asset, ones he couldn’t remember. He looked into his own eyes and recognized nothing. That wasn’t him, that was some mock-up of a person from long ago. A ghost. The man on the display was a stranger, and the man in the video, laughing with all that light in his eyes. And then there was Steve.

A memory pushed at him from the very back of his brain, struggling up to the surface from a pool of murky waters.

 

_Oh nothing stays the same from yesteryears_

_See I recall being afraid of the dark_

 

“Give it back!”

Bucky only laughed, rolling away as a ball of bony elbows and knees launched itself across the floor at him.

“Come and get it!” He yelled, stumbling to his feet and nearly falling again when his hip jammed into the couch. “Ow!”

“Serves you right, you jerk!” Steve reached for the nearest pillow, dislodging it from the mess of their fort to lob it at Bucky’s face. It struck home, and he fell with a dramatic cry, sliding down against the wall with a hand over his heart.

“You punk! I’ve been struck! Struck! Murdered! Slain! Oh, the great battle is surely over now,” Bucky said, slumping even lower. He closed his eyes, suppressing a grin as he heard Steve crawling across the floor towards him. He waited for another couple seconds until the sounds were only inches away before he reached out to swing his own pillow at Steve. “Gotcha!”

Except, Steve had his own plans. He pulled a blanket over Bucky’s head, effectively blocking his arm and his vision. Taking care not to jostle the smaller boy too much, Bucky pushed back, maneuvering off the wall and attempting to turn the blanket back on him, but Steve battled back twice as hard. He wrapped it tighter, smothering Bucky into the floor.

Bucky tried to pull free again, but anywhere he turned was an arm or leg blocking his way. He heard Steve’s laugh, ringing loud and clear like a church bell, and almost considered surrendering for real until he remembered that they both liked a good challenge. But that still didn’t mean he had to play fair. He wrestled an arm free and shot it around to Steve’s side, making him jerk enough to unbalance him as Bucky tickled him.

“No fair!” Steve protested, but it was too late for him. He fell to the side, managing to push Bucky’s hands away before flopping back onto the ground, exhausted.

“Giving up already?” Bucky said. Steve just huffed, letting his head roll back as his chest heaved. Blond hair haloed around him, and Bucky stared at his gap-toothed smile fondly before laying down on top of him.

“You’re heavy,” Steve said, but didn’t push him off. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, holding him against his chest. It was a little worrying, how cold his skin was even in the blazing heat of summer, but Bucky had long grown used to it. In a strange way, it had also become familiar, reassuring, as everything about his best friend was. His soft, almost lemon-yellow hair, the pink that often flushed over his face and down his neck, the faint constellations of freckles on his nose and his smooth, cool skin. And those eyes- he knew every fleck of color better than the back of his own hand.

And he couldn’t describe the feeling he got in his chest whenever Steve held him like this- it felt like. Like home.

“Boys!” Bucky lifted his head, a little sleepily, smiling at Sarah as she leaned against the kitchen counter. “What happened to that fort you were building?”

“Mmm, we might'a gotten a little carried away,” Steve said. He patted Bucky’s shoulder, a signal for him to move, and he reluctantly untangled himself from Steve.

“We’ll get right back on it, ma’am,” Bucky said, offering a lazy salute to her.

“Well, if you two are going to be such diligent workers I might as well fix you up something to eat, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, please!” Steve said, sitting up like a shot, and Bucky laughed, poking him in the side. They clambered to their feet as Sarah went to look through the pantry, going back to the pile of gathered blankets, pillows, sheets, and all manner of usable items.

Bucky looked over to the couch, seeing a dusty stuffed rabbit perched on the arm. It was half-flat and very far from being white anymore, loose strings hanging out from the sides and popped seams allowing the stuffing to flow out on occasion. Even the eyes were crooked, the right one messily stitched back on by Steve only a few months ago. He picked it up, doing a little dance with it across the living room floor before placing it atop a stool, their fort’s highest point, and declaring it the new monarch.

“Meet Mr. Wabbit, Banisher of Fears and Ruler of Thunder.”

 

_And holding on to teddy bears_

_I’d wrap myself in blankets just to cover me from fears_

 

“Steve . . .”

“Come on!”

“I don't think this is a good idea.” Steve pulled a face at him. “What? I'm being honest, I thought you wanted me to be honest.”

“Maybe not _that_ honest then,” Steve said, grinning. He kicked at the sand, sending it flying, as he hopped down the hot beach. Waves crashed upon the shore, stronger and higher than they'd ever seen before. Sunlight beamed down on them, reflecting off the pale sand of the empty beach. Bucky stared at him, his no longer gap-toothed smile, which had never gotten less magnetic. His hair, still as yellow as a pure candle flame.

He couldn't remember what happened next- or at least clearly, but he caught bits and pieces. Water splashed at his face, laughter and the sun in his eyes, then panic. He felt an echo of fear, heard muffled shouts, remembered Steve's head lolling to the side. Coughing up bits of blood with the water.

That wasn't the first, and certainly wasn't the last time Steve's own lungs had turned against him. That much the Asset knew. Snippets of conversations and images flashed by with details too fast to catch. Steve had given Bucky that rabbit at the end when it stormed the night they built that fort. Something about them- the loud noises, the hot searing light with the power to burn houses to ash- just didn’t sit right with Bucky. But Steve was always there, with his cold hands and his bony hugs that felt like home.

Home. Steve’s home had been lost- when his mother died, his mother. Sarah. When Sarah died Bucky had invited Steve to stay with him, hadn’t he? Those big blue eyes filled with tears, the sharp line of his shoulder under Bucky’s hand, their promise to stay with each other, always. Back then, they’d struggled, but compared to now it was nothing. The man and the boy he was before wasn’t just a ghost and a stranger, but someone the Asset really didn’t get. Could never connect to on a fundamental level, because he’d take those struggles in a moment over any of his current problems. Compared to any of the things he’d faced since those days in Brooklyn could only be good.

“I can’t believe you.”

The voice was so clear he almost thought it was one of the people around him saying it- but no. Another memory surfaced, one from before all that.

 

_That was then and now I’m here_

_And the night is mine_

_So hear me scream_

 

“Anything for you, Stevie,” Bucky said, taking a dramatic bow. It’s July 4th, 1934. Steve’s hair lit an orange and red fire in the light of the sunset, with that pink flush all over his face and down his neck. Bucky tried not to stare at where the blush disappeared into Steve’s shirt, and focus on his eyes instead. His blue, blue eyes.

He shook his head as if it would help him clear it and laid down a blanket, letting Steve settle onto it, safely out of the sand, before rifling through his bag. The wind brushed by, causing nothing but a gentle sway in the trees, dancing through Steve’s hair. Its color had faded a bit as he grew older, but Bucky still held the memory of little Steve, with his glowing gold hair, gap-toothed smile, and almost permanently scabbed knees close to his heart. In recent years it seemed the scabs and scars had migrated from his knees to his knuckles.

“Did you bring dinner?” Steve asked skeptically, and Bucky triumphantly raised two carefully wrapped sandwiches into the air.

“I made them myself,” he said proudly, and Steve gave him a sarcastic round of applause. “Shut up.”

Steve laughed, and what had once been a bell-like sound was now a low chuckle. He forced himself not to stare yet again and offered a wide grin in return, plopping down next to Steve and throwing the sandwich at him. He ignored the way Steve’s leg pressed against his.

“Appreciate me,” Bucky whined, and Steve picked up the package with one hand, snatching the bag from him with the other.

“Depends on what else you brought. . .” Steve teased. Bucky huffed, leaning back and letting his arms stretch above his head into the sand. He sifted through it with his fingers, watching the purple-painted sky above him and waiting until he felt Steve tense.

“What’s this?” He withdrew something from the bag, a mess of brown paper and twine.

“Your birthday gift, idiot,” Bucky said.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Steve said, nudging Bucky’s side. “Really. Even with you working at the docks now, I know your family’s a little tight on money and, well, they’re more important than I am and-”

“Jesus, Steve, you’re supposed to open gifts, you know,” Bucky cut in. He sat up, an arm naturally swinging over Steve’s shoulders. He only grinned when Steve complained about the sand and half-heartedly tried to push his arm off. “I wanted to get you it, and it’s my money and that’s that. Now open it.”

Steve paused for a moment longer, then began to work it open. Bucky laughed at him as he struggled to pull apart the thick paper, and Steve threatened to dump a handful of sand over his head.

“What is it?” Steve asked, but then the paper finally slipped away and he was left with a handful of paint tubes. Vibrant blue, deep pink, and canary yellow stood cheerily out against the paper. He paused, eyes flying wide, and looked at Bucky in disbelief, cradling them to his chest. “Are these- Buck- watercolors?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, a grin slowly taking over his face as Steve sat in silent wonder. “I talked to Margo down at the shop and she told me to get bright ones. They’ll make your colors prettier. I mean, maybe you’d want something more conventional but she seems like she knows what she’s talking about, and I know you’ve been wanting to spice up your sketches for a while so I thought-” Steve twisted and threw his arms around Bucky

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Steve said, over and over and over again. Bucky smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. “Ah! I could kiss you right now.”

“Why don’t you?” It was meant as a joke (or at least, that’s what he told himself), but it had come out far too quiet. Too serious. Steve stilled. Could he hear Bucky’s heartbeat? Could he feel it pounding against his own chest? His blood was roaring in his ears, and _oh,_ that was a mistake, wasn’t it? He should’ve kept his mouth shut, he should’ve kept his mouth shut-

Steve pulled back. He was aware of everything- the weight of Steve’s arms, still wrapped around the back of his neck, holding him close. The distance between them, mere inches, and the colour of Steve’s eyes- deep waters, far beneath where the sun shined and down where unknown creatures waited for their prey. His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the blue. Bucky swallowed, loudly, and those eyes flickered down to his lips.

“Stevie-” and then that mouth was on his. Firm but sweet, a press of warmth that ignited something in his chest. And chaste. Bucky’s eyes slowly opened again- he hadn’t even realized he’d shut them- Steve had an expectant look on his face. He was waiting for Bucky’s reaction too. “ _Stevie.”_

Bucky twisted half into Steve’s lap to kiss him again. And again. And again. He never wanted to stop.

“Ugh, Buck, you’re getting sand in my hair,” Steve complained, talking against Bucky’s lips when he tipped over the edge of the blanket.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. His heart was still racing a million miles an hour, and he couldn’t stop smiling, and he couldn’t stop kissing Steve, especially when he smiled in return, especially when he _laughed._ Those pretty lips curling at the edges so he just _had_ to kiss them, and Steve’s cheeks and temples and wrinkled nose and forehead, and right on the crown of his head, on that candle flame hair.

The image faded into nothing, the warmth slipped out of the Asset’s chest. That was the first time he’d remembered. . .anything like _that._ The Asset doesn’t have emotions, the Asset is a machine- except for when it’s not. The Captain, the mission, _Stevie,_ they were all one in the same, and they were pulling something out of the recesses of his mind and the heart he didn’t know he had. More than anything he just wanted- just wanted-

“Did you hear they arrested him?”

The anxious voice of a young man. One the Asset hasn’t come across in this time.

 

_I was too young to understand what it means_

_I couldn’t wait til I could be seventeen_

_I thought he lied when he said take my time to dream_

 

“For what?”

It was a cloudy day at the docks, every sliver of sun swallowed by grey. Even the water was dark, lapping calmly at the support beams as they passed by overhead. Bucky hauled another crate into Will's arms, one foot in the rocking boat and another on the dock.

William was burly for a teenager, built up from years of working on the docks. His father ran their little business, moving anything from traders’ supplies to government shipments. Dark hair fell into his eyes, and his tanned skin looked stark against Bucky’s own ivory shade. And when even Bucky had to admit someone was built, they were really, truly strong- yet despite his large frame, he was the most gentle of people. Bucky should’ve learned long ago not to take someone’s looks as any indicator of their personality- as Steve was one fierce ball of rage.

For a long beat, there was no response, and Will’s face paled a bit before he turned away. He ducked his head, walking carefully down the wooden platform while Bucky hurried to grab another box and follow him.

“Something happened, last night and Douglas reported him,” Will said, refusing to make eye contact. Bucky didn’t like that word, ‘reported’

“Wait, you mean Richie? Richie was arrested?” He wanted to feel angry, or scared, or something, but all he felt was numb. An icy hand gripped his heart, sitting just there, not leaving but not letting its claws sink in either.

The boys at the docks, they had a sort of code- don’t ask, don’t tell. And if anyone else came around asking questions, they were to refer to that code. This was a business, and these were business relationships, and how would they know what the others got up to in their free time? Except, the code had started because of that knowledge. Richie Jones, a swaggering boy with tawny hair and bright eyes, had taken one look at him and Steve by his side the first day, and flat-out asked him if he was queer.

Not when Steve was there, of course, but his focused stare had made Bucky shift for an hour before Steve left, and Richie had immediately rounded on him. He had tried to deny all claims, of course, but Will gave him a knowing look and a smile and recited their rule. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

“Yeah. Richie.” Will’s voice was a barely-there breath. The boys of the dock might have a code, but the men didn’t- they couldn’t be trusted for anything, especially not when they were so close to Will’s father.

“I- Will I'm. I'm sorry.” He didn't know what else he could even say. Will's gaze became even more focused on the wooden slats as they passed Douglas and his crew. “You're still here, though. Will, did he see you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Will said lowly. Bucky pursed his lips, glancing warily behind them.

“Can we visit him?”

“I don't think that's wise.” Will still wouldn't look at him.

“I'm sorry.”

“I know.” He finally reached the stack, swinging his crate onto it and slowly turning towards Bucky. Something changed in his posture, and for a fleeting moment they locked eyes and Will’s tone turned fierce. “Don't worry, you won't be next and neither will I. You'll have your peace if it's the last thing I do.”

He didn't answer for a long minute- and what could he say? There were no words, there was no comfort, nothing. He grasped out at empty air and came back with no words still. The determination melted back out of Will, his gaze sliding away. In silence, they walked past the guys again, who were hooting about something or another and paying them no mind. All except for one. Douglas, a lithe man with a cap low over his greying hair and dark smears over his tank, stared right at them.

Bucky nodded to him a stiff acknowledgment and he nodded back, tipping his hat even lower. “You should worry about yourself. I haven't got anything going on.”

“Is that so?” Will said. He stepped onto the boat, easily picking up the next crate and handing it off. Bucky sagged under the weight for a moment, narrowing his eyes, and Will looked over his shoulder.

“Buck?” His heart slammed to a stop. He caught a glance of Will’s expression as he clambered out of the boat, quietly taking back the crate and walking off with it. It was somewhere between amusement and worry.

“Is it the end of my shift, already?” Bucky asked, even though he knew the answer.

When he turned around, Steve was standing on the docks, toeing a loose board and looking up to smile like Bucky hung the moon. “Yup. I didn’t know whether you’d want to go straight home or not, so I brought my sketchbooks in case you wanted to sit for a while.”

“Oh. Smart of you.” Seeing Stevie right where Richie had been not a day ago made his stomach churn. What if it really was him next? What if it was Steve? He realized Steve was waiting for an answer. “Let’s go.”

More than anything the Asset remembered the fall. The cold. Steve’s face- he was much larger than in any of these memories, he looked more like the Captain. He remembered when Bucky was eighteen and had told Steve that he couldn’t do it- he couldn’t do _them._ That this threat would be hanging over their heads forever.

Bucky had believed it would be better for Steve. The Asset could see that it was a severe miscalculation. The Asset was also still a goddamn coward. He was getting pieces of himself back- like shards of a shattered mirror- but he could never be the same person again. Maybe Steve wouldn’t like this version so much, and the Bucky-person had done a bad job to start with.

The Asset saw his reflection beside Bucky’s face. His cap pulled low over his eyes, scruff on his face and clothes ill-fitting and dirty. He was nothing like the Bucky-person. The Asset looked at a picture of little Stevie before it shifted to the Captain. The Asset was bad at making choices, but one day. . .he promised himself, one day he’d be better at it.

 

_Now I wish I could freeze the time at seventeen_

 

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* this was left with only a few paragraphs to go months before Endgame came out, and then I had a lot of feels (mostly aNgEr) so here we are! I finally decided to finish this and try to forgive my son, Stevie. (I love him very much, I'm just also very disappointed) Be on the lookout for a sort of post-Endgame one-shot featuring the OG Peggy Carter, and a sort of? post-Endgame Sambucky adventure plus more time-travel, in the coming months, because. . .as I said, a LOT of feels


End file.
